A Fear of Hope
by chlocoloco
Summary: 'I fear hope more than I fear death, or loss, or fear itself. Death and loss and fear are common and easily compartmentalised and pushed away when you adjust. Hope is a seed that grows and grows until it eventually swallows you whole.' Frankie's just trying to survive through the apocalypse. Feeling hope again wasn't supposed to come into it. Extremely slow Daryl/OC
1. One

**Title: **A Fear of Hope  
**Rating: **T for Teen.  
**Warnings: **None for this chapter.  
**Summary: **'I fear hope more than I fear death, or loss, or fear itself. Death and loss and fear are common and easily compartmentalised and pushed away when you adjust. Hope is a seed that grows and grows until it eventually swallows you whole.' Frankie's just trying to survive through the apocalypse. Feeling hope again wasn't supposed to come into it. Eventual Daryl/OC  
**Disclaimer: **The Walking Dead belongs to its respective and numerous owners. I'm just playing in their sandbox.  
**Notes: **This is just a little thing that popped into my head and I haven't stopped writing since this morning. Chapters will be posted either every day or every other day since I'll keep a chapter in 'storage' at all times. All forms of constructive criticism are very, very welcome!

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**One**

The funny thing about the end of the world is that nothing is funny anymore, not really. You have to find humour and happiness and things that aren't really humorous or happy because the things that are – they're long gone.

The kid down the road who always tripped over his own feet while he ran from your dog – he's gone. And while we're on the subject, your dog, she's gone too. Your crazy old aunt who always smelt like sherry – she's gone, just like her sherry. The neighbour you always nodded at when you passed in the street is gone, and so is his wife and kids and their mangy little cat that he would swear blind was the cutest little thing he had ever seen.

The apocalypse is all kinds of not funny to the point that it's hysterically so.

Or maybe I'm just insane. Sometimes I think I am. Sometimes I hope I am – hope that this is all just an insanity induced dream and my family are happy and warm and _alive. _The hope is the worst part, I think. Hope has a way of burrowing under your skin and sinking into your bones and convincing you everything will be alright just as it shatters you into a million more pieces.

I fear hope more than I fear death, or loss, or fear itself. Death and loss and fear are common and easily compartmentalised and pushed away when you adjust. Hope is a seed that grows and grows until it eventually swallows you whole.

And here is a truth that nobody knows: hope will be the death of us all.

* * *

I trace my fingers absently over the spine of my book, gazing out at the rising sun from my perch on the windowsill. The book is thick and the pages are falling out, but it's mine. In it I have scrawled countless things – poems I have read and poems I have created, quotes and songs and stories and wishes and names. Sometimes the names come with stories or wishes, but mostly the names are just crossed out because the person the name belongs to is gone. The book is the only thing I have left from before.

The sun breaches the horizon fully and paints the ground in hues of brilliant gold and soft pink. The shades flicker like flames as colour seeps back into the world and I indulge myself, allowing a moment to just sit and watch. I love these moments in the quiet of dawn and dusk. It is easy to pretend the world hasn't ended, here, when all the eye can see is the beauty of the rising sun awakening the Earth.

I linger for longer than I should, waiting until the illusion of peace is shattered by the emptiness of the streets, before I stand. My book goes into the pack that is filled mostly with food, slotting into its customary pocket. I shut my pack and sling it over my shoulder, picking up the worn leather quiver filled with arrows and I shoulder that, too. I pick up my wooden bow, trailing my fingertips over the ridges of the patterns I've carved into the wood before leaving the house that was my home for the night.

I am thankful for the hundredth time for my parents insisting I take up archery as well as as many self-defence classes as possible as I trek down the road. They had been so overprotective, so worried I would get hurt that they had insisted I learn to keep myself safe. I had resented them for it at the time, resented that my free time was taken by these classes I had thought I would never need, but ever sense the dead started walking and eating the living I had been endlessly thankful.

The road is lonely, which shouldn't surprise me (it doesn't) or affect me (it does). Nearly everywhere is lonely and quiet and eerie in its way and I'm sure I should be used to it by now, but I'm not. I don't think there will ever be a day I will be. I can only hear my footsteps, faint and even and constant, and the beating of my pulse in my ears. The silence is deafening but I make no move to break it. Noise attracts the corpses.

The road and the silence is my only companion for a long few hours. Not even the corpses come this far from the city of Atlanta, not yet, which is why I prefer to stay so far away. But my supplies are running low, so a trip nearer to and possibly into the city is necessary. Eventually the city looms into view and sends shivers down my spine, and it is only then the silence is broken.

The wheezing hiss I have come to associate with the corpses comes suddenly and softly. I take a deep breath, tasting the scent of death on the air, before withdrawing an arrow and nocking it. The corpse hasn't come into view yet, but it's near. I take slow and cautious steps, accompanied by deep and careful breaths as my eyes dart in every direction, looking for the slightest movement.

It takes a moment but the corpse stumbles into view. I suck in a deep breath, raising my bow and taking a moment to aim before my arrow flies and the corpse crumples to the ground. I creep forward, pausing only to pull my arrow out of the thing's head before ploughing on. The sun is high in the sky, now, beating down and unleashing the full force of its unforgiving heat. My stomach chooses now to make its protests at the lack of food known and I sigh.

There's no time to stop and eat here – the city is close, which means the corpses are, too. Stopping is too risky, but the fact remains that I haven't eaten today and I need to. I pause, allowing myself five minutes. I pull out a tin of pears and peel off the lid, quickly eating the tin's worth before setting it on the ground and pushing on.

The silence returns but it's different, somehow. Earlier it had been oppressing and unforgiving – a warning, but now it's as if the entire world is holding its breath and waiting. This silence seems like its anticipating something, but I don't know what and I'm not sure I want to.

It seems, however, that I have little choice in this matter. The silence is broken this time buy a familiar-but-not sound that's oddly like a growling, or rumbling. It takes me a moment to realise it's a car and a moment more to realise how _odd _that is. I haven't seen a running, working car in almost two months – nearly as long as it's been since I've seen a real person. I frown, considering the fact that I may be going a little insane when the car comes into view.

Calling it a car is a bit of a stretch. It looks more like – well, it's a piece of junk. The blue truck is coming out of the city and actually heading in my direction. I wince a little, scrambling to hide behind an abandoned car on the road. After a second I realise how dangerous this is – the car graveyard that is the highway leaving Atlanta is the perfect spot for the corpses to hide in wait for people to come scavenging – and I stumble back out onto the road. I eye the truck with a healthy amount of trepidation as it slows to a stop in front of me. I can see two men in the truck, both of whom are looking at me with a little bit of surprise. Perhaps they thought I was a corpse, or maybe they just weren't expecting to see another living person. Maybe it's both.

I blink slowly at them, fingers curling tightly around my bow as I rock back on my heels. The truck doors swing open in almost unison as the two clamber out, the driver hefting a crossbow. I look at it with no small amount of jealousy and some concern. I like crossbows substantially more than the guns and knives tucked into my belt, though my bow wins above them all. Such weapons are silent and the ammo is essentially never ending. Arrows and bolts can be retrieved and created, not like a bullet for a gun.

The man wielding the crossbow hangs back a little behind the other man as they walk over to me. I hesitate for a brief second, eyes lingering on the crossbow for a moment longer before nocking an arrow and lifting my bow slightly. The crossbow goes higher in response, but he makes no move to fire so I don't raise my bow.

I take a moment to look them over as they do the same to me. One seems older than the other – the one in front, grinning at me like a loon. His hair is short, cropped close to his head, and greying. There's stubble on his cheeks and chin and both he and the black vest he's in are covered in dirt. His companion looks no better; he, too, is covered in dirt and grime. His hair is short as well, but not as short as the other, and there is no grey amongst the brown.

I feel spotless compared to them in my plain red tee and khaki shorts. I make an effort to keep myself as clean as possible; I haven't got the water to waste to clean off when I do get dirty. My weapons are kept completely clean and ready for use. The only part of me that really appears dirty is my hiking boots, but that's to be expected when you wade through corpses on an almost daily basis, I suppose.

My eyes zero in once more on the crossbow, lips pursing as I stare. The silence has returned and this is the silence I hate most; they are waiting for me to speak, to say something to break the awkward air that has settled, but I refuse. I've waited out corpses and deer and people. I will wait out two men on the side of the road. I raise my bow ever so slightly, drawing attention to the weapon without meaning too.

"Hey now girlie, why don' ya pu' tha' bow o' yours down?" the older one suggests, still grinning.

I narrow my eyes at him. "My bow will go down as soon as his crossbow does," I say coldly, expression matching my tone.

The crossbow wielding man snorts. "Tha' ain't happenin'," he spits out.

I turn my cool gaze to him. "Then my bow isn't going down."

"C'mon now little bro, she's only a lil girlie," the first man says, addressing the other, who's apparently his brother. "Wha' harm can she do us?"

The reply of _you'd be surprised _is on the tip of my tongue, but I clench my jaw and say nothing. I don't want to provoke them into a fight. I am confident enough in my skills that I'm sure I could defend myself, but fighting attracts attention and truthfully, there's not much I can do to defend against bullets or bolts.

"I'll pu' my bow down as soon as she pu's hers down," he challenges.

I roll my eyes, snapping, "That's what I suggested in the first place."

The younger glares at me while the older merely grins wider. I want to snap at them again but once more swallow back a retort. Instead, I lower my bow, watching as the other lowers his crossbow. Both of us are tense still, regardless, but the older man merely chuckles and claps his brother on the back.

"See Daryl, tha' weren' so hard," he says cheerfully before turning back to me. "Wha's your name, girlie?"

"Frankie," I reply shortly.

The unnamed redneck laughs as if I've told a particularly funny joke. "Frankie?" he repeats, still chortling. "Ain't tha' a boy's name? You ain't a boy, are ya?"

I glare irritably at him, tightening my grip on my bow instinctively. "No," I say waspishly. "It's short for Francesca. Who are you?"

"I'm Merle Dixon," he introduces grandly, looking as if this name should mean something to me. It doesn't. "An' this here is my baby brother Daryl."

"Pleasure," I retort dryly.

"Ain't it though?" Merle agrees, smirking at me. "Wha' ya doin' on your own out here, _Frankie_?" He places emphasise on my nickname, his amusement clear. I bite back the urge to kick his amusement off of his face.

"Scavenging for supplies," I say after a pause. "And I'm alone because I _am _alone. I'm not with a group."

Daryl shuffles uncomfortably from behind his brother but says nothing. Merle ignores him so I follow suit, returning my cool gaze to the eldest Dixon.

"A lil thing like you, all on your own?" he says in surprise, the first seemingly genuine emotion he's shown.

I give a one shouldered shrug by way of reply, using the movement to shift the weight of my pack slightly. When it becomes clear I'm not planning on saying anything else, Merle turns to his brother and mutters something I can't make out beyond a low thrum of noise. Daryl's face twists unhappily as he scowls at me, but eventually he mumbles a reply that seems to satisfy his brother and both turn to face me.

"We're par' o' a group," Merle told me abruptly. "Up by tha quarry. We're s'posed ta take any survivors we see with us according ta the cop."

I hum softly, realising why he brought it up. It was his indirect way to offer me a place in their group. My eyes flicker to Daryl and I have to fight off a smirk as I see his put out expression. I glance up at where I know the quarry is before turning my head back towards the city.

_Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both, and be one traveller, long I stood, and looked down one as far as I could. _

The poem pops into my head unbidden as I think through my options. I'm not an idiot – I know Merle and Daryl could be playing a game. Perhaps they want my food, or weapons, or something else I refuse to consider. But Atlanta is dangerous; the city belongs to the dead. I could die if I went down either path. The temptation of a group is a large one. I'm tired of being alone.

I turn back to the Dixons and nod, once, silently. They take my nod for what it is – an acceptance of their unspoken offer – and turn back to their truck. I follow after them, trailing a little behind. My fingers flex around my bow as I loosen my grip a little.

There's not enough room for me and my supplies to fit into the front of the truck, and I refuse to part from my things so I hop into the bed of the vehicle. I inwardly acknowledge that a part of this is to avoid having to keep up conversation with the rednecks on the way to their group and it makes for a quick escape.

The drive is bumpy but quiet on my part, so I'm pleased. I manage to relax my grip on my bow eventually, placing it in my lap as I stare out at the passing scenery. I ignore the conversation going on in the front, aware that the brothers are talking of me but not caring enough to listen in. Instead I pull out my book from my pack, flicking to the poem that had earlier come to my mind. I skip through to the last few lines, a small smile quirking on my lips.

_Two roads diverged in a wood, and I – I took the one less travelled by, and that has made all the difference._

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The poem quoted in this chapter is _The Road Not Taken_ by Robert Frost. I'd really love to here what you guys think about this, so pretty please drop a review?

~Chloe x


	2. Two

**Title: **A Fear of Hope  
**Rating: **T for Teen.  
**Warnings: **None for this chapter.  
**Summary: **'I fear hope more than I fear death, or loss, or fear itself. Death and loss and fear are common and easily compartmentalised and pushed away when you adjust. Hope is a seed that grows and grows until it eventually swallows you whole.' Frankie's just trying to survive through the apocalypse. Feeling hope again wasn't supposed to come into it. Eventual Daryl/OC  
**Disclaimer: **The Walking Dead belongs to its respective and numerous owners. I'm just playing in their sandbox.  
**Notes: **Sorry this took a little longer than planned to get out; my laptop died on me not long after I posted the first chapter. Luckily nothing got wiped in its death! Thank you for the favourites, follows etc. and shout out to SilverAdvenger12 for being my first reviewer! :D

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**Two**

For the rest of the ride, I lose myself in the words written in my book. The distraction works well and it takes me a moment to remember where I am when the truck rolls to a stop. I blink once before shutting my book and returning it to my pack, nervous butterflies whirling up a storm in my stomach. I can hear the chatter and noise of others and it fills me with an odd sort of longing for companionship, for a place to call my own, if even for only a little while.

I swallow quietly as I hear the sound of the truck's doors opening and then shutting, taking a moment to compose myself. I school my expression into something that is almost but not quite indifference as Daryl mutters for me to hurry up. Merle announces my arrival to the group as I clamber out of the bed of the truck, my hand fisting automatically around my bow for comfort.

I'm overwhelmed with the urge to run, suddenly – a reaction I'm quite used to. I've never been the most sociable of people and I don't enjoy meeting new people under good circumstances, and the apocalypse doesn't exactly fall under good circumstances. I swallow audibly now as I brush past Daryl, ignoring the look he sends me as I step carefully around him. I want more than anything to hunch in on myself, perhaps turn on my heel and run from this situation, but instead I maintain my cool expression as I send a sideways glance to Merle.

The Dixon is grinning once more and I wonder briefly if he finds some perverse sort of pleasure in seeing people when they're uncomfortable. It's certainly a possibility but I resolve to hold off on judgement. He's been nothing but good to me so far, if irritating; he was the one who offered a place in the group, after all. I turn my gaze back to the group who all seem to have congregated at Merle's loud declaration of a new survivor. My want to run increases with all the attention focused on me but again I keep my unaffected front up.

It seems that the man in front with dark, mussed hair and warm smile is the leader of the group, as he turns and tells the crowd to break up. I entertain the idea that he could sense my unease at being surrounded by so many people but dismiss it quickly. I've gotten very good at pretending to feel a certain way over the years and I'm confident he wouldn't have been able to see past the charade. That means he merely wants to talk to me in private, which I can handle.

"Hello," I greet softly, thrusting out a pale and scarred hand. "I'm Frankie."

Merle sniggers as he saunters past and I glare at the back of his head, a frown tugging at my lips. The presumed leader watches the interaction with something akin to concern but says nothing, instead turning his attention fully to me.

"Nice to meet you, Frankie," he says in reply, taking my hand and shaking it. "I'm Shane."

I nod once, murmuring, "Likewise," as we drop hands.

There is a brief moment of awkward silence as he surveys me. I know he is trying to puzzle out if I'm going to be a threat or not. I don't look like a threat, I know. I'm slim and just a little above average in height. My skin is pale, refusing to tan despite the blistering Georgia sun. My brown hair and brown eyes make for a fairly non-descript appearance. I suppose if Shane could see the scars marring my skin from self-defence classes and the fights I've gotten into over the years, he would think differently, but my skin is so pale the scars are barely noticeable.

"How old are you?" he asks me abruptly.

My eyebrows knit together as I give a half-frown. "Twenty eight," I say blankly.

Shane is clearly surprised as he gapes a little. "You look – younger."

I purse my lips a little. I have always looked younger than my age, I know, but it doesn't mean it ever got less irritating to be told so. "I know."

He nods once after a moment, eyes drifting to my pack and quiver of arrows. "You use a bow?"

I nod in affirmation, elaborating slightly. "My parent's thought it would be a good thing for me to take up – archery, I mean – when I was younger. It was the first thing I grabbed when…" I trail off, knowing I don't need to explain further. He understands.

"And you haven't been bit?" he asks now.

"Not that I'm aware of," I reply dryly. The question amuses me in a dark way – he doesn't know, of course, but I had promised myself a very long time ago that if I ever was infected by the corpses I wouldn't let myself turn. If I had been bit I wouldn't have been in the camp. I would probably be settled in the stomachs of some lucky corpses. The thought it disquieting, but I don't let myself dwell on it.

There is another moment of silence, but it is somewhat more comfortable. After the pause, Shane nods again and claps his hands together, jerking his head over at the camp at large.

"How 'bout you come meet everyone, huh?" he suggests.

"Okay," I agree with a small smile, following after the older man as he turns and walks into camp. I brace myself for the attention, the eyes and the questions, taking a deep breath to steel myself. I console myself with the knowledge that if I can get past this – the interrogation, of sorts – then I could have myself a relatively safe place.

* * *

The people at the camp turn out to all be relatively nice, with the exception of one or two. I'm a little pleased to find that many of them don't know each other; the apocalypse has banded them together. It should make it a little easier for me to settle in; they will understand my situation better.

The interrogation remains relatively impersonal. There are no questions about my lack of companions and very few of my past. They don't seem to want to pry, but I'm not complaining. It's nice to not have to go over my experiences through the end of the world in great detail. If I don't think of them then perhaps they won't bother me quite so much.

When the introductions and questions are all over and done with, I'm offered a place in the RV with the sweet old man Dale and the two blonde sisters, Amy and Andrea. Amy is nice and gentle to the core. Andrea seems quite welcoming in her way, but it's clear her priority is her sister and if any harm should come to her through me I will suffer consequences. I respect that; I was the same when I had a reason to be.

My favourite person at camp quite quickly becomes Dale over the next few days as I settle in. He's interesting and friendly without being overbearing. He likes to read and to share the little wisdoms he's picked up over the years. Many of the things he says get put into my book in the quiet of the night.

Shortly behind Dale is the little boy at camp, Carl. His mother Lori is nice enough, I suppose, but we never interact much. Carl and I get along splendidly, however. He likes my bow and listening to the stories I have in my book, and I like his enthusiasm and light. I treat him like an adult and he treats me like a friend, or an older sister. He reminds me of my little brother, but that's best left not thought about.

I've avoided the Dixon brothers mostly through my first week. I am thankful to them for their help but Merle is loud and obnoxious, grating in a way few people can be. I can sometimes draw amusement from his comments, but mostly they just rile me. It baffles me how someone can be so ignorant, so woefully prejudiced when the world is the way it is. And, of course, it's no secret Daryl and I didn't get off to a great start. Added to that that neither of us are what one would exactly call big talkers and our few interactions tend to just end with us both feeling awkward and annoyed.

Carol and Sophia seem sweet, if both quiet and meek. I know why; it's an unspoken fact amongst camp that Carol's husband, Ed, is violent towards his wife and child. I want to step in, to stop it, but I'm told to leave it before I can do anything. I do not ask why, but I comply regardless.

T-Dog and Jacquie are not two people I've talked with much at all. T-Dog seems alright enough but we're by no means similar. Jacquie in her turn is very religious and I lost my faith when I woke up to see the dead walking and eating the living. Seeing her faith so staunch and unrelenting – it's hard for me to deal with, but I have no wish to begrudge her her faith or antagonise her for it, so I generally stay away from her.

Glenn and I became quick friends. Our ages are quite close and there's just something about the Korean man that makes me relax in a way I rarely can. While Dale is my favourite person at camp, Glenn is probably my best friend at camp. We don't know much about each other at all, but we don't really need to. We get along well and conversation comes easy between us, and it's good enough for both of us to find that in someone else so quickly.

Shane talks to me a lot, making sure I'm settled in at camp and getting on with everyone well enough. He's a little bit of a puzzle to me. Sometimes he seems nice and warm and welcoming but others he's cold, almost, and hard. But despite that, he's never been anything _but _nice to me so I don't comment on that.

After my first week at the camp, I get given my first watch shift. I'm doing the night-time shift accompanied by Dale for the first half and Daryl for the second. While I'm looking forward to the time with Dale, the prospect of having to spend an extended period with the awkward Dixon brother, alone, is not one I see myself enjoying.

Just before my shift starts, I clamber up the ladder and onto the top of the RV, my book and bow in my quiver, along with my arrows. Dale is already there, perched in his customary lawn chair. We exchange smiles and greetings as I settle into the other lawn chair, pulling both my bow and my book from my quiver and placing them on my lap.

"How're you settling in, Frankie?" Dale asks me when I'm situated, smiling warmly at me.

"Pretty good," I reply with a soft smile of my own. "Everyone's been surprisingly nice. It's been nice to be around people again."

Dale's smile widens slightly and he nods, eyes flickering to my book. I can see the question in his face but make no move to answer. I know there's been a bit of curiosity throughout camp about my book; I'm very rarely seen without it. Nobody's come out directly and asked me about it, though, so I keep quiet.

"Your book," Dale says eventually. "May I ask what's in it? I've hardly ever seen you without that tucked away in your pocket or in your hands."

A small, if surprised, smile quirks on my lips as I run my fingers over the worn leather binding. "It's sort of a scrapbook," I murmur after a moment. "Only with words instead of pictures. I've written poems in there, and stories, and songs and quotes, and private things. And names. Lots of names."

"Names?" he presses gently, tilting his head to the side as he peers at me.

"People I've met. People I've loved. Most of them are people I've lost," I admit. "I don't want to forget them, so I write their names down so I can always remember them." I pick at the edge of the leather, sighing faintly. "Maybe it's a little maudlin, but I might be the last person alive who remembers these people. I can't let myself forget them, knowing that."

Dale nods, looking like he understands, before he requests I read a poem. I'm a little surprised by the request, but I comply happily all the same. I flick through the pages, eventually coming to a stop. I run my fingers over the words, feeling the little dents in the paper from where I'd wrote them.

"To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best day and night to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight and never stop fighting," I read solemnly, looking at my companion out of the corner of my eye.

Dale smiles, wide and soft. "That's my favourite poem," he confides.

"I like it a lot, too," I reply as I relax a little into my seat, turning my eyes out at the surrounding area. "E. E. Cummings is one of my favourite poets."

The small amount of awkwardness that had been in the air lifts as we settle into a conversation that carries all the way through our overlapping shift. We talk of poems and stories and quotes and then of ourselves. I tell Dale a little about myself but he senses I'm a little unwilling to share a lot of personal information. Instead of doing the same as myself and holding back, however, he shares even more. He tells me of his wife and their plans and her death. He tells me a lot of things, painting pictures with his words, and I feel a little in awe of him.

When his shift is up, the disappointment I feel is heavy. I've been enjoying his company and the fact that he is about to be replaced by the ever gruff Daryl Dixon is just a further reason for me to dread the coming hours. We say our farewells and Dale disappears down the side of the RV. I take the few moments I have to myself to internally whine about having to spend time with the hunter who so far has served to make me feel only uncomfortable and irritated.

It feels like barely any times has passed when I hear someone climbing up the ladder on the side of the RV and I sigh softly into the wind, curling my fingers tightly around my bow. _This promises to be interesting, _I think with another huff as Daryl's head pops over the top of the RV.

_Either that or fantastically boring. _

* * *

Reviews are love!

~Chloe x


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